the couch

The couch is where we started. We made love till the cushion gave. I believed that I was IT....the girl. The IT girl. Movies defined the most intimate of moments. We were alone and love was the grandeur. Somehow the couch became the vehicle for the relationship.

It saw it all. Almost in slow motion. If I were that purple couch I'd think ..I had it made. The cushions were just what our battered bodies needed to replenish the energy we gave to give life to something lifeless. An object with no soul has become the metaphor that defines our relationship relative to one another.

The love that soaked the cushions in the dim nightfall has evolved to become pure boredom. The couch itself was purple. Since, its colour has faded to reveal a dismal shade of grey, that reluctantly reflects the daylight to show the dust accumulated from the nights that experienced only dead air and sacrificial jokes. We both laughed at the comedy that masked the irritation of unspoken words.

I felt sorry for this couch, that once housed so much passion, excess and devoutness. The owners of its mere existence have turned it into garbage, not even worthy of donation...not even worthy of the curb.